


Basic Witch

by ItsALilah



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Almost Crack, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Solo has a dirty mouth and I'm here for it, Consensual Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Halloween, If you call this a plot, Minor Leia Organa/Han Solo, Oral Sex, Redeemed Ben Solo, Smut, Smut with a plot, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wicca-inspired AU, Witchcraft AU, Witches, Witches shop at REI, dirty talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsALilah/pseuds/ItsALilah
Summary: Witches have congregated to Lincoln, Virginia, since before records were even kept. Rey's just the latest one to arrive, but she's different than the others. For starters, she has no idea what she's doing, but she prefers to practice her craft alone. Also, she's probably the only witch that's offering craft beer to the gods and goddess.Ben Solo's from a long line of Lincoln witches, but he's returned home only to eschew magick completely.  He's still running from his dark, his past, and definitely not doing anything witchy. Like walking in the woods on Samhain. Or spying on a pretty brunette witch during her Samhain rituals.They both should know that on Samhain, moonlight is like whiskey and there's no denying the Goddess's will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween to all my lovely Reylos, and to all my witches: Happy Samhain and Blessed Be.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch._

The sound of footsteps on dead leaves permeates the dark forest, following the bouncing white light of an LED headlamp that illuminates the tree trunks and bushes ahead. Every so often the moon breaks through the autumn canopy above, enough leaves still clinging to their last, brilliant moments of life to block out its glow otherwise. 

Thank the Goddess for REI, Rey thinks as she makes her way through the woods. She can’t imagine how ancient witches managed to conduct their nightly rituals without things like fleece jackets and hot hands. Especially those living in colder climates, ones that actually experience seasons.

Rey loves the fall, even if it makes her a bit basic, loves the smell of decomposing leaves and the crispness of the morning fog. Moving from Death Valley to the small hamlet in the mountains of Virginia allowed her a new life in many ways, letting her experience things like weather and forests and more than just barren sand. Sure, Lincoln had its fair share of quirks (to put it mildly), but it was far, far better than Joshua Tree.

The slender brunette gracefully leaps over a fallen tree on the trail, looking like a woodland creature as she does. Her hiking shoes land in the soft dirt with a thud, and she feels a thrum inside her as her bare fingers brush the soft duff. 

Power from the life around her, the song of her ancestors, calling her like a siren. It’s why she’s wandering through the woods at 10:30 pm on Halloween, alone and carrying a pack filled with candles and salt. It’s what brought her to Lincoln, what drove an information security analyst to choose a tiny village with nothing more to offer than a great brewery and FiOS (somehow installed here, although likely due to the Mayor’s powerful influence) as her new home. 

Hell, it’s why so many witches and Wiccans seemed to find their way here, drawn by the natural concentration of the power of the Earth around them. A nexus, they called it, perfect for boosting even your garden variety Wicca practitioner’s magick. 

But Rey’s not your average witch. 

Perhaps that’s why she eschewed all the covens in the area, although they were filled with very nice and accommodating practitioners eager to have a real witch in their flock. It’s not that Rey’s a snob, or that she looks down on those who practice witchcraft without such a connection to the Earth. It is, however, tiring to share a coven with them, to endure hours of questions (not to mention sometimes inane requests for love potions) about powers Rey herself doesn’t understand. 

Of course, there are covens made up of only Natural Witches (as they’re now called). Lincoln is home to all kinds of witches, and Rey’s powers garnered her invitations to these elite covens. But given how she’s just learning about what it means to be a witch, just discovering herself and her powers, she’s frankly intimidated by joining such a group. Even the highly regarded Skywalker-Organa coven was too much for her, despite its reputation for teaching Natural Witches like herself. 

No, Rey’s always been a loner, always been alone, and that’s how she likes it. 

Finally, she reaches a clearing in the forest, one that runs up against a wall of granite and with enough space that the moon’s warm glow breaks through. Water trickles down the rock’s face, fed by a natural spring hidden deep in the cliff before her. It is here that Rey casts her circles, the space she has claimed since moving to Lincoln. It called to her, first in her dreams, then so powerfully that she left her cozy home office nook and spent hours wandering through the forest one afternoon, not stopping till she found it. 

She feels the surge of mystical energy around her, flowing like the water down the cliff. It is how she learned she descends from wood witches, the first time she felt the warmth of her ancestors brushing against her soul, here in this sacred space. 

It feels like home every time she comes here, the first time she’s ever felt such a sentiment. 

It doesn’t take her long to unzip her pack and set up her circle. First, she draws a circle around herself with salt, a form of protection against the darker elements of her craft. Once that is done she sets four white candles in the salt, evenly spaced. The first one is placed at the northernmost point of the circle, then east, south, and finally, west. Finally, she draws her ceremonial dagger out of her bag, the metal blade catching the moon’s reflection. 

She goes to the center of the circle, feeling the energy around her humming with anticipation. Grasping the hilt with both hands, she raises it above her head, and begins to speak:

“Guardian of the North, spirit of the Earth, I call upon thee to be present during this ritual, and ask that you join me and bless this Circle with your protection.”

As she finishes the invocation, she lowers her athame and points it towards the Northern candle. A flame bursts to life on the tip of the wick, symbolizing the elemental’s arrival.

Rey returns to her prior position, now facing the eastern candle. “Guardian of the East, spirit of the Air, I call upon thee to be present during this ritual, and ask that you join me and bless this Circle with your protection.”

Again, she points her blade at the candle as she finishes and again, the candle lights on its own, although this time with the slightest breeze that feels a bit like laughter. 

She repeats the incantation two more times for the south and west candles, invoking the elements of Fire and Water respectively. Finally, all four candles are lit and she senses their energies rising around her, filling her and connecting her to the wood, the soil, the air, the water, the heat of the Earth’s core. 

“God and Goddess, I invoke thee and ask that you be present with me during this Samhain ritual. Please bless this circle and keep me protected. No unwanted entities are welcome here, only those I invite in. The circle is cast, so mote it be.” 

There’s a change in the pitch of the electricity in her veins as the energy inside surges out, hypercharged molecules spreading out to form an invisible bubble of magick encasing her within. 

She lowers herself onto the soft grass, letting herself relax in the protection of her sacred space. She sits in the direct center of it, where the energies from each guardian converge, allowing them to flow into her. If she was doing work and casting spells tonight, it would boost her powers, but tonight is a sacred night for witches. Samhain, the traditional end of the harvest and when the line between life and death is the thinnest. Tonight is a night for her ancestors, ones that hold all the answers to Rey’s questions. 

First out is her altar, a wooden slab make of live oak that she lays on the ground before her. Then she adds her offerings: apples, tiny pumpkins (because she had to ruck it all out here on her back), some eagle feathers, rosemary for remembrance, and finally (which she adds with a touch of sheepishness), a four pack of Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. 

“Ancestors, I call to you on this most sacred night. I bring you these offerings to honor you and thank you for your protection and guidance. You’ve shown me the way and brought me here, and so I invite you into my circle with open arms. Please, hear me, ancestors. Please take my offerings, my gratitude.” Her voice trembles as she continues to chant, a familiar lump growing in her throat. “As I begin my meditation tonight, I ask that you come to me and show me my place in all this. My family. Where I belong.”

The wind feels like whispers on the back of her neck, no longer chilled with the scent of oncoming winter but warm, smelling of peat and summer rain. 

“Feumaidh mi cuideigin a tha a 'sealltainn dhomh mo àite anns a h-uile nì,” she says, speaking now the ancient tongue of her people from lifetimes ago. 

Behind her closed eyes, a path unfurls, along with a weathered voice, filled with kindness. “Rey,” it calls to her, “Seo na ciad cheumannan agad.”

In her mind, she steps forward, and she goes deeper into her trance. 

Outside, in reality, the candles flicker in the breeze, but stay lit. They do so as another figure appears at the edge of the clearing, tall and broad. Rey’s too far gone too notice, lost in her prayerful search to feel the presence of the other.

“Feuch, taisbean dhomh mo phàrantan,” she whisper-begs.

The flames dance, reaching towards the silent observer. 

————————

Ben Solo (or what’s left of him) doesn’t quite know why he’s walking through a dark forest on chilly Halloween night, but here he is, freezing his ass off despite his black North Face fleece and tripping over every fucking root his feet can find. 

He didn’t even bring a flashlight, he thinks with a sigh, but then again, he’d planned on staying inside his studio tonight, with his wood stove and bottle of rye to keep him company. Not traipsing through the wood like some magickally inclined Bear Grylls, no. 

Of course, that’s why he’s here, shivering as he nearly face-plants into the duff for the nth time, all thanks to that supernatural fucking call of mystical energy that draws every Harry Potter wannabe to Lincoln. Except he, thanks to the _blessing_ of his bloodline (really, more of a curse), actually feels the magick in the earth around him. It’s a siren song so power that he cannot resist its beckoning tonight, despite his best attempts to do just that. 

It really shouldn’t be so surprising, given that he’s the heir of Anakin Skywalker, the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo, the most powerful family of Natural Witches out there. Magick runs in his veins, crawls through his skin, and the whisper of the elements constantly tickles at the back of his mind, even when he tries to wall himself off from it. 

It’s what drove him to spend too many nights as an angsty, pimply teenager out here, casting circles and invoking the spirit of his grandfather. Until he became emboldened enough to mess with the same dark entities out there that eventually led to his grandfather’s fall, stupidly thinking himself smarter, wiser. More in control. 

Which is exactly how he ended up enslaved by an especially nasty entity known as Snoke for the better part of a decade, using his powers for destruction and malice until he finally broke free. Why, after he fled Snoke’s grasp, he cut himself off from magick, stopped practicing completely. 

Of course, that doesn’t explain why he recently accepted his mother’s persistent offers (really, demands) to return to his tiny, milquetoast hometown of Lincoln, nestled deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains and oh, yeah, a powerful nexus of elemental magick that allowed Snoke to find him in the first place. 

He’d lied to himself and said that because his family came from coastal witches that he’d be able to ignore the call of the woods, as well as the eager invitations of local covens, to isolate himself in his photography studio. He focused instead on his budding career, traveling away as much as he could (but never being strong enough to stay away for too long). 

It’s maddening, his lack of control. It’s bad enough being home and facing his family after all he’s done; but the God and Goddess won’t leave him be. Forcing him home, drawing him into the forest on Samhain, sending him dreams of a pretty brunette- _that_ pretty brunette. 

Like Gaia herself is now playing matchmaker. 

Gaia really needs a fucking hobby, Ben thinks with a snort. 

Of course, he knew the identity of the tawny haired brunette haunting his dreams. Everyone in town knew about the latest witch to call Lincoln home, a _real_ witch, all the wannabes whispered reverently. Hell, even his own _mother_ seemed captivated by her, breathlessly filling him about the mysterious Californian known as Rey (because in a town of less than a thousand people, last names are wastes of oxygen).

Leia had called him the moment he got back from Guatemala, where he’d been covering the caravan for the AP. Ben had to resist the urge to snap his iPhone in half when he realized she wasn’t calling to welcome her only son home, but to wax on and on about the powerful new witch in town who didn’t want to join a coven. 

“I mean, she’s clearly just discovering her powers, Ben, why won’t she join a coven?” Leia huffed, and Ben rolled his eyes so hard his eyelid spasmed. 

“Probably because she’s smart enough to stay away from all of the drama covens carry.”

“Benjamin!” Leia admonished. “Covens are not all drama, they are helpful and powerful networks for witches like ourselves. I don’t understand why you continue to eschew them, especially our _family_ coven - your coven.”

He bit his tongue to keep himself from reminding her _why_ it was no longer his coven, not wanting to raise that issue from the dead again. 

“Maybe you could offer to help her out, give her some lessons. It might be a great way for your both-“

“No,” Ben growled, cutting his mother off before she could finish her pitch. “I told you, I’m done with magick forever, Mother. I’m not changing that stance for some baby witch from California.” He’d hoped his authoritative tone, with just a hint of anger, made her drop the subject. 

Naturally, it didn’t, and Ben endured another ten minute lecture on his “bloodlines” and “duty” and blah blah blah until he finally pretended to lose signal by crinkling a paper bag over his phone’s mic.

He sighs aloud, the sharp exhale of air heard by no one but the sleeping woods around him. “What in the everloving fuck am I doing here?” he asks himself, running his hands back through his black hair in frustration. He shouldn’t be here, he knows this, knows he should turn around, and in fact, he resolves, that’s exactly what he’ll do -

“Feumaidh mi cuideigin a tha a 'sealltainn dhomh mo àite anns a h-uile nì.”

It’s a whisper on the wind, feminine, soft, begging. It silences his inner affirmation, halting him in his tracks. Scottish Gaelic, he knows, familiar with all of the ancient languages still used by Natural Witches. 

_I need someone to show me my place in all this._

Ben’s long dormant heart sparks back to life with a stutter, the pain apparent in the speaker’s plea. He barely recognizes that he’s moving again, following the guidance of the Air to the edge of a familiar clearing, one popular with hikers and lovers for its seclusion. 

At first, Ben thinks he’s discovered a wood nymph, for the brunette before him moves in the forest air like a faery, inhuman in her grace. She’s tall for a woman, and willowy, lithe, chestnut hair falling over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her eyes are closed, pink lips that he can see even from here parted as she breathes through her meditation. She’s bathed in the soft glow of autumnal moonlight, as if she’s the Goddess Selene.

His breath catches in his throat as he realizes that this is no vision, that he’s found his dream girl before him, right here in the woods that haunt his very soul. 

“Rey,” he can’t help but whisper. 

She says something again, this time too faint of a whisper for him to make out, but her face contorts with pain as she says it. It makes something protective unfurl in his chest, a need to fix whatever twists her beautiful face in such an aching manner. 

He continues watching her, enthralled, as she meditates in the protective cocoon of her circle. There’s a hint of sadness, disappointment, growing on her tanned features as she continues her prayer, as if whatever she’s searching for continues to elude her. 

He can feel her power from here, where he lurks in the treeline. It’s humming, electric, making his blood run hot and his stomach coil with animalistic desire, something he immediately tries to dampen. Last thing he needs is for her to break her meditation to see some tall, brooding stranger with a boner watching her work.

This last thought causes Ben to realize that he either needed to leave or make his presence known. His feet (hell, his whole traitorous body) seems reluctant to move at all, and he finds himself wondering if there’s a good way to introduce yourself to someone by explaining that you’ve been having erotic dreams about them for the last month.

Probably not.

“You know, most people would be a little put off by some stranger standing there and watching them meditate.” Her voice, teasing, draped with the unexpected lilt of an English accent, breaks through Ben’s reverie.

_Shit._

“Most people aren’t casting spells in the woods on Halloween, either. Maybe you should be more careful.” he retorts, mouth working independently of his brain and making him regret its actions. 

Good to know he still goes straight to asshole when confronted.

Her lilac eyelids finally open, revealing what looks to be hazel eyes as she stares out at the treeline. 

“I’m not the one hiding in the trees.”

 _Touché,_ he silently admits. 

And then, desperate to change the subject, his mouth opens again.

“You must be the girl I’ve heard so much about,” his voice sounds smooth, which is a godsend because he’s internally kicking himself. 

“Small town, not much to talk about,” she shrugs, modest. Her shoulders shake with the slightest shiver as she does and Ben’s attacked by dual urges to warm her up and also see if there are other ways that he can make her shiver. 

“These woods aren’t all rainbows and sunshine, little one. You should be careful out here at night.” His voice is surprisingly predatory, slow, and to Ben’s delight he detects the slightest inhale of breath between those rose-tinted lips of hers. 

_Maybe she’s here to dance with the dark,_ something wicked in him whispers, the part of him he pretends not to know any more. 

“Why? Are you the big, bad wolf? Is that why you won’t show your face?” her tone stays teasing, but there’s a challenge woven into her words.

“Maybe I am,” he retorts. But Ben Solo’s never backed down from a dare, and so his feet finally move, bringing him into the light. He waits for her to react, to do what any rational woman would do when confronted with a 6’5” man in all black and with a nasty scar on his face. 

It takes him a minute to realize she’s not screaming. No, her face is anything but frightened, given the rise and fall of her chest (move your eyes up, pervert! he chastises himself), the way she bites at her bottom lip. 

“You’re not afraid,” he observes out loud, and she laughs, a light, tinkling sound like faery dust.

“The forest would tell me if I need to be afraid.”

“Be careful, Rey. The forest can lead you astray if it wants.” This time, his words are serious, a warning that his little woodland nymph ignores with another laugh.

“Is that so, Ben Solo? It seems to have lead you to me, after all.” 

His throat catches at her name on his tongue and all the implications of it. Surely, in a town as gossipy as Lincoln, she’s heard all about the tragic tale of Ben Solo, and yet she sits here, completely unafraid of him despite being in the same forest that gave birth to Kylo Ren.

“What?” she giggles. “There’s only one natural born witch I haven’t met in this town, making the process of elimination easy.”

“Most people would be afraid of running into me here,” his voice is almost a growl, some of his pent up frustration leaking into it, and she cocks her head at it, curious.

“I’m not afraid,” she says bravely, voice steady as a rock and eyes watching, but fearless. Now he can see how they’re honey with flecks of emerald, warm pools that he wants to dive right into and never leave. 

“Then why don’t you invite me in, little one?” He’s almost to her circle, and can see the shimmering force of magick around her, protecting her. Perhaps that’s why she’s so bold, knowing that here, in her circle, her _element_ , she’s untouchable - a tormenting temptation just out of reach. 

At this, her face falters, and so does Ben’s heart, as he thinks that of course, this must scare her, inviting the monster in. _You idiot_ , he chastises himself. 

He’s always been bad at hiding his emotions, and Rey must see the disappointment on his face because she drops her head before mumbling, “I don’t know how.”

He can see her cheeks burning with shame as his mother’s words about Rey needing a teacher comes flooding back to him, and he finally understands. Returning his lower jaw to a shut position, he finds himself saying the most ridiculous thing possible, given his strict anti-magick stance.

“I can show you.”

Her eyes dart up at him and she suddenly sees how close he is, how broad he is. He sees her gulp as she stands, not allowing his size to intimidate her. 

_Run, little one, you’re playing with fire._

“You would?” she gasps, excitement reflecting in her eyes and Ben Solo knows he’s completely, totally screwed. 

“Invite me in, Rey,” he commands, and his voice is dark again, dangerous. He’s losing all semblance of his fragile self-control with her, like she’s possessing him, mind, body and soul. 

“Come in, Ben,” her voice is almost breathy, and he can’t help but notice that she’s got the same enthralled look, pupils wide and the irises turning green with something that looks like lust.

Her invitation compels him to step forward, and with a shaking hand he runs his fingers along her circle’s barrier, drawing a door between the south and east candles. As he moves, the magical shield parts like the sea, welcoming him inside.

He closes it by reversing his prior movements, zipping up the opening like a tent door. 

Now he’s close to her, standing almost atop her feet in the close confines of the sacred circle. He can feel _her_ , her lifeforce, it’s like an intoxicating buzz in his ears and prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He clenches his fist to keep himself from reaching out and grabbing her, touching her, tasting those sweet lips with his own.

Instead, he focuses on the foolishness of her actions (naivety being too light a word to describe it), driven by that damnably persistent urge to protect the pretty little witch before him. 

“You should be more careful about who you invite into your circle, little one. There’s darkness in these woods, the type that would love to get its hands on your powers.” Despite the anger (hello, old friend) flickering in his veins, his voice still sounds borderline seductive, and he begins searching for the emergency brake for his lust. 

“As I said, I’m not afraid of you, Ben Solo.” 

“Not everyone calls me that, you know,” his words are slow, cautious, prodding to see what reaction he’ll get, hoping she finally makes the connection (because surely she hasn’t made it a month in this town without hearing all about him. It’s Maz Kanata’s favorite topic, and Leia’s informed him just how much Rey loves Maz’s coffeeshop).

“I’m not afraid of Kylo Ren, either,” she says after a painfully long moment, eyes fierce again. Part of him whispers that he should make her afraid, show her what the dark is.

“You should be,” he whispers, and then resists the urge to suck in his breath as she’s stepping closer, craning her little neck up so she can look him in the eye.

“Too bad,” her eyelids flutter coquettishly, and the tight feeling in his pants tells him he’s lost the battle with his cock. “But I don’t fear the dark.”

The idea that a Natural Witch like her would say such a thing should be a giant, waving red flag that the pretty woodwitch with dazzling eyes is absolutely, batshit crazy, and that he should probably listen to his father’s lesson to “never, ever stick your dick in crazy, kid.”

But then again, his father married his mother, who was absolutely batshit crazy, so what the fuck does he know?

That last thought breaks the last piece of Ben Solo’s resolve, and with that, his arm encircles Rey’s slender waist, pulling her towards him. It’s as if he’s intoxicated by her, drunk off moonlight and magick, making him not just dangerously confident, but undermining all his rational parts that should be telling him to stop.

“Be careful what you wish for, little witch,” he murmurs, right before his lips meet hers, and he closes his eyes at his first taste of _her_ , Rey. He can feel his shoulders shake with restraint, as he tries to keep it tender, chaste almost, not wanting to move too fast, or worse - push his boundaries.

Then she makes the most contented little sigh and he’s done for. Absolutely gone, white flag up, because he’s pulling her closer, lips pressing more firmly as he deepens the kiss. Then her sweet mouth opens and suddenly their tongues are dancing, dueling and he can’t help but groan, surrounded by the taste, the smell of Rey, something so right, so sweet.

He steps back, breaking away with wild, lust filled eyes that match her own. She looks utterly debauched from one kiss, lips bruised and skin flushed, breasts heaving under her Patagonia jacket. 

Deep in the forest, an owl screeches, and Ben’s suddenly brought back to his surroundings. Its enough to pierce through the lusty haze in his head, enough to make him think that if he’s going to keep kissing her (and oh, he is _absolutely_ going to keep kissing her), that he might want to take her to a more private place.

Somewhere where the woods aren’t watching. 

“Follow me,” he says, a strange surge of confidence rushing through him and making him brave. Rey hesitates, as if she’s starting to register just who she’s invited into her sacred circle.

“Where?” she asks, keeping any overt wariness out of her voice.

Brave little witch. 

“I-“ For a moment, Ben Solo truly cannot find the right words, and at 11:13 pm (EST) on Samhain, 2018, he was utterly and completely speechless for the first time that he could remember. 

As if the forces of nature themselves compel his tongue, he finally starts talking. “I feel - I think I was supposed to find you. Here. Tonight. It’s like you were calling me, enchanting me, putting me under your spell. I don’t think the forest was doing it for shits and giggles, I think -“

Rey slides her slender little fingers between his, making him feel like an overgrown oaf next to her. But her hands are soft, warm, and make butterflies flutter in his chest, so he doesn’t recoil like he normally does at human contact. 

“I feel it too,” she whispers, looking deep into his eyes like she’s examining his soul; and maybe she is, this sorceress girl with skin still kissed by the desert. 

His lips are on hers again, this time more sweet, soft and tender, like she deserves, he thinks. Savoring her like a decadent desert, and he thinks she tastes like fleur de sel caramels, sweet with a pinch of salt. 

She pulls back with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and for a second, they’re both breathless. 

“I don’t want to desecrate my altar, anyways. I’m not that kind of witch.” She grins, somewhat imperiously.

“Then you’d better move fast, little witch,” he warns, earning himself another delicious shudder before she picks up her dagger.

——————

The man currently known as Ben Solo is a mystifying one, Rey can’t help but think as she begins packing up her candles and athame, right after closing her circle and releasing the energy inside. 

For starters, she can feel his power, his gifts (how could she not when she’s so close to him? He’s terrifyingly powerful, and feeling him so close makes her feel like she’s floating). But the rumors are clearly true, as he doesn’t offer to help her cast the closing spell, or to scatter the salt to the wind (to prevent any damage to the soil). He avoids using magick at all, the only time he’d voluntarily done so was to open her circle and join her inside, and even then, she saw how his hand shook. 

Ludicrous, Rey thinks, that a man of with this connection would eschew magic, even after his experience as Kylo Ren (and yes, Rey’s heard all about that. Between Maz, Finn and Rose, she practically knew Ben Solo’s entire life story). But yet, he’d escaped the clutches of the demon that possessed him, a demon which he’d help seal in some light-sided nexus, only to avoid anything magickal ever since. 

‘Until tonight,’ her mind whispered, reminding her that Ben Solo decided to talk a moonlit stroll in Lincoln’s forest on Samhain, and that it had lead him to her.

For a second, she wonders if she somehow cast an attraction spell unknowingly, given that she’d been repressing her attraction to this tree of a man since he caught her eye a few weeks ago. She’d spied him walking down the street, past Maz’s front window where she’d sipped a maple latte. Once she’d seen this giant walking ball of (incredibly hot) angst, she found herself completely unable to look away. Even with sunglasses hiding his eyes, his face was striking: pale skin dotted with moles, a strong jaw and full lips. Lips that were meant to be kissed, Rey decided. The thin scar running down the side of his face, one that should be jarring, instead made him look dangerously handsome.

He was, essentially, a deliciously tall drink of water that made Rey feel parched. 

It hadn’t helped that after that, Rey started having extremely explicit dreams about said Ben Solo, the kind where she woke up soaked and aching for him, the kind where she couldn’t look Leia Organa Solo in the eye for a couple of days out of shame. 

Maybe that’s why she’s doing this, giving in to temptation and letting herself be stupidly reckless by going home with Ben Solo after he’d spied on her, come on to her and vaguely threatened her before kissing the life out of her. 

It’s absolutely insane, she knows, but tonight, Rey wants to feel a little crazy. A little out of control. 

Maybe she even wants to dance with the dark. 

Just one dance won’t hurt, right? she thinks as she sneaks a peek at the man behind her. His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he inspects the contents of her altar, the only bit not packed up (as she’ll leave her offerings out for the night). 

“Are you - is that Pumpkin beer you’re leaving as an offering to the gods?” he scoffs, and Rey can’t help but feel a flash of annoyance. 

“It’s good beer.” 

“I wasn’t aware the Goddess was going through her hipster stage.”

“Pumpkin is basic bitch, get your memes straight, Solo,” she huffed, rucking her pack onto her back. 

There’s a brief silence, and Rey begins to put a point in her column. She’s rudely interrupted by another amused comment.

“You drank all your mulled wine, didn’t you?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and Rey can’t help but blush at being called out. 

“I was having a day, all right?” The annoyed part of her grows, and she wonders if this strange man actually wants to continue their makeout session, as this really isn’t putting her in the mood. 

“I can think of some much more effective forms of stress relief,” his voice is like velvet again, low and deep, and Goddess, her knees feel like mushy peas. It’s enough to snap her out of her annoyance as she mentally envisions all the ways Ben could effectively relieve her stress. 

“Someone’s cocky,” she can’t resist but quip before whirling around. She finds herself staring down at his massive chest, so close that if she stuck out her tongue, she could lick him. 

‘Damn his clothed state,’ she curses internally, filing that wicked little idea away for later. 

“Mmm, well then, I’ll just have to prove it to you, little one,” he leans over and growls, right into her sensitive ear and oh, fuck, does that turn Rey on. Her skin flushes hot and she actually hears herself squeak in response, all cognizant brain functions long gone.

She’s only mildly mortified by her response, and to (very smoothly) cover it up, Rey begins marching across the small meadow, confidently strolling back into the woods. 

“Rey?” Ben’s voice stops her mid-stomp, and she whirls around.

“Are we all talk, or did you actually want to put some actions behind your words?” she asked with a hand cocked on her hipbone, trying to look somewhat seductive in her baiting. 

“I fully intend to, however, you’re going the wrong way.” She can hear the laughter in his voice, and she curses the beautiful bastard before her under her breath. 

Goddess help her, she’s either going to fuck or murder Ben Solo by the end of the night. 

Maybe both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben takes Rey home for a little Samhain magick making. 
> 
> Tl;dr: Smut. IDK what else to say, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **YO! HERE BE DRAGONS. ERM, WELL, NOT DRAGONS, BUT EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT THAT IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER 18. IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ SAID CONTENT, OR ARE NOT OF AGE, PLEASE CLICK YOUR BACK BUTTONS NOW. CONTINUED READING SHALL HEREBY BE AN INDICATION OF CONSENT AND BLAH BLAH BLAH OKAY, YOU GET IT.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Let's get this show on the road.

Ben Solo makes up for his cocksure attitude by sticking next to Rey during their brisk walk through the forest, his large hand entwined snugly with hers. The night’s taken on an enchanted air, magick glittering in the air like fireflies, as if the gods themselves are encouraging this… union. 

_Sure_ , Rey thinks, _let’s stick to that_. After all, it’s a little less creepy than the thought of the elements and the gods eagerly waiting for her and Ben Solo to get it on. 

The playful mood of the woods makes Rey feel more emboldened, more sure of her decision that yes, going home with the mysterious black sheep of Lincoln is definitely not crazy or a surefire way to get her killed. 

This does not mean she stops teasing him, as she’s coming to enjoy their bantering. She flippantly mocks him for not even bringing a flashlight, watching his eyes flash and cheeks take on the faintest hint of color.

“I mean, seriously, Ben, just because we’re witches doesn’t mean we have to live like it’s the 16th Century,” she chides.

“I didn’t really intend to go for a nighttime stroll,” he mutters, and something warm in Rey’s chest blossomed, understanding the meaning of his words. That he was _called_ to the woods, to her. 

It was truly as if the elements conspired to bring them together, the woodland nymph and the fire witch.

However, she senses Ben’s continued unease over the whole magick subject, so she doesn’t push that line of razzing any further. Instead, she releases his hand and skips ahead just a bit so her hips sway, drawing attention to her butt (the one good asset she has, thanks to now having a well-rounded diet and nutritional supplements). 

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, telling her he’s watching.

Despite the warm glow of the full moon and the thrall of the forest, Rey’s chilled enough to be glad when they arrive at Ben’s “humble” abode. The large structure stands out like a giant mushroom in the middle of the pasture surrounding it. Large picture windows allow the warm light inside to be cast out, drawing them towards it like moths.

She’d always wondered who converted the old Skywalker barn into a home, and now she knows. 

For someone so damn intent on running from his heritage, Ben Solo’s doing an awful job. 

Upon entry into the former barn, Rey sees that the interior is anything but historical (or expected), with an open floor concept and sleek, stainless steel appliances. There’s a tall lofted area above her, with rail-less stairs leading up to it. _His bedroom_ , she realizes with a gnawing hunger. The only original looking parts are the heavy barn doors that separate closets and bathrooms, as well as the refinished oak floors, shining brightly in the light. 

There is, however, a beautiful old cast-iron wood stove sitting in the corner of the downstairs area, one which Rey immediately heads towards after dropping her pack on the floor and her jacket on a chair. She basks in the heat radiating from it, stretching her hands towards it as they begin to thaw. Eventually, she perches herself so she’s half-sitting on the back of Ben’s leather couch, angling her body towards the stove.

She hears a clicking noise and turns to see Ben Solo lighting a candle with a long-stemmed barbecue lighter. At this sight, Rey’s unable to keep her curiosity caged.

“You’re lighting them… manually?” she asks with a wrinkled nose, confused as to why a witch so clearly tied to the element of fire would do such a thing. 

“Yes,” he responds tersely, shooting her a chastising look. 

“But, you’re a fire witch.” Now she’s truly curious, which is probably a bad sign for her libido.

Ben sighs, tossing his head up at the heavens to dramatically question his existence. 

Yup, _definitely_ Leia’s kid. 

“First, I was not a fire witch, Solos are traditionally tied to shorelines - so water. Second, I’m not a witch anymore. Not a practicing one, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Rey frowns, shaking her head in disagreement. “First, a Natural Witch is a Witch. There’s no changing that, it’s who you are. Second, you are one hundred percent a fire elemental.”

She resists the urge to remind him that Anakin Skywalker was a well-known fire witch, not quite curious enough to completely cockblock herself

A bitter laugh escapes Ben’s lips. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Excuse me, I’m not some clueless Christian girl you brought home. Of course I know all about you, Ben Solo. Kylo Ren. Whatever. I just don’t let it defi-“ Rey’s slightly hot-headed rant is cut off by Ben Solo’s hand clamping over her mouth, silencing her. 

“Stop saying that name,” he growls, eyes darkening in a completely different way than before. “Not here.” Fear and anger cloud his face, and Rey sucks in a breath, reminding herself not to be afraid. 

“I told you, I’m not afraid of you. No matter what you call yourself - or used to.” She barks as soon as he removes her hand. 

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew me before,” Ben whirls around, using his height to tower over her. He hunches down, leaning over her so her back’s against the sofa. She meets his glare with equal ferocity, refusing to flinch at the sight of his metaphorical fangs.

“Maybe, but I don’t see why you’re letting that keep you from who you really are.”

He trembles before her, this giant of a man, and Rey’s not sure if he’s going to kiss her or kick her out. Chocolate eyes are locked onto her lips, and his chest heaves with each breath, in, out, in, out.

She can see the battle in his eyes.

She ends it for him, tilting her head up and lifting herself off the couch just enough to catch his parted lips in her own. They’re so soft, and slightly warmer now that they’ve left the chill of the night, plush and luxurious in an erotic way. She half expects him to freeze when she kisses him, even so gently and sweetly, as if she’s the prince and he’s Snow White. But as soon as she’s got her lips on him, he breaks. Two arms encircle her, pressing her torso up against him, so his hips are wedged between her thighs and her core’s pressing just below his waistband. One giant hand’s snared in her hair, tangling it into his paw, tilting her head back with a pressure that’s too light to be forceful, but too strong to be gentle, so Ben can ravage her mouth with his own. The other hand starts on her waist before migrating up, over her hips and along the curve of her abdomen, dragging her t-shirt up just a bit before reaching her breast. He’s insatiable, fingers nimbly searching for her nipple beneath her clothes, strumming it through the fabric like a guitar.

Rey moans, unable to hold it back and despite her eyes being closed, her vision dances for a second, the sudden onslaught of pleasure and Ben effectively dulling her sharpened tongue. 

Eventually, Ben breaks away to let Rey breathe, his lips flying to her neck, her ear. He’s searching for every spot that makes her shiver, mapping her body like the most diligent explorer. She doesn’t completely surrender, and she grinds her aching core against him, seeking both revenge and relief. 

He’s thick and hard in his jeans, to the point where it must be uncomfortable but his hips still thrust up against her clothed cunt, both a chase and a promise of what’s to come. 

“Ben,” she gasps, and he responds with a low chuckle, voice sinfully deep as he whispers in her ear,

“Do you like that, my little witch?”

All Rey can do is shudder, suddenly very aware of how hot his breath is in her ear, how each word makes her spine prickle and tingle and her hips rubs up against him again.

He returns his mouth to hers, re-claiming every bit of territory he’d already won and then some. His kisses are greedy, his tongue darting out and stroking hers before withdrawing so he can suck her bottom lip between his teeth. It’s a surrender so sweet that Rey’s lost all ability to defend herself, only able to twine her fingers into those thick black curls that frame his face. 

Next time he breaks away, Rey’s ready, and with swift hands (skilled from a childhood requiring agility and nimbleness), she’s pulling up his shirt, over his stomach, his chest. At this point, Ben takes over and he rips it over his head, tossing it onto the floor beside him.

Goddess above, this man is fucking ripped. His abs are ridiculous, Rey’s sure she just counted 8 pairs of muscles but she’s not sure that’s possible. His chest is, well, equally impressive, well chiseled muscles covered in pale skin.

He looks good enough to eat and oh, Rey can’t resist, so she licks up from the top of his abs to between his pecs, before moving to his shoulders, his clavicles, his neck. She can feel him shiver as her lips blaze new trails on his skin.

He seizes her jaw in his hand, going back in for another round of searing kisses that leaves Rey trying to both climb him like a damn tree while also pulling him towards the seat of the couch, needing to feel him closer, deeper, _more_.

She’s too disappointed to be confused when he pushes away, resisting her attempts to maneuver him. She’s unable to stop herself from pouting at him, cocking her head to side in confusion before he pulls her up to a standing position with one hand, eyes raking down her like a man possessed.

“Not here, little one. I want you in my bed,” Ben murmurs as he nuzzles against her cheek, her neck, nipping at her jugular as he spoke. Really, Rey’s in no state to object, lust clouding her mind as his hands drift back down to her hardened nipples, pinching them hard enough to make her mewl.

She feels weightless when he picks her up without a grimace, sweeping her up into a bridal carry. The angle allows her to kiss his jaw, distracting him as he carried her up his slatted wood stairs.

“Mmm, my little wood witch, so needy for me already and I’ve barely touched you,” he croons.

About two-thirds of the way up to his lofted bedroom, Rey remembers that the candle in the living room is still burning. Maybe it’s because she grew up in such an arid place, where fire scorched what forest California had, but it breaks through her desire enough to make her speak up.

“Ben, the candles,” she whispers with a tug on the back of his shirt, and Ben Solo freezes right before the top step.

He looks at her, then back down to the candles. Back at the incredibly horny beauty in his arms, feet away from his bed, then again to the candles. There’s a small groan, a non-verbal white flag, before he closes his eyes and flicks the fingers wrapped around her thighs towards in the candle’s direction, extinguishing its flame with an astoundingly simple motion.

Rey’s never felt another natural witch use elemental magick like that, not with her in such close proximity. It feels like a whisper in her ear, warm and spiced, just like Ben.

_Not a fire witch my ass, she thinks with a smirk._

Her triumph is cut short by Ben shifting her weight, right before there’s a sharp smack on her ass from his hand. Half of her is in shock over him spanking her, the other half of her is relishing in the oddly delectable sting of it.

Ben definitely notices, his pupils somehow blowing wider as his lips curl upwards. “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you, Rey? Maybe I need to punish you a little more for mocking me, you naughty girl.”

Blessed be this man’s sinful mouth. Rey can’t help but nod back at him, biting her lip to repress a whimper, still unsure of what to think of his voice, his words, and the way they make her cunt weep.

After clearing the last step and carrying Rey into his loft, Ben gently lowers her to the ground. Once he’s sure she’s stable on her coltish legs, he yanks her cranberry Stanford t-shirt up, over her head, tossing it behind her.

Rey hears it sail over the ledge and to the floor downstairs, but she really doesn’t give a single fuck right now. Not with Ben Solo cupping her small breasts, covered only by a slip of a lace bralette, breathing “gorgeous” under her breath like she can’t hear him.

Then he’s bending down to pay homage to her nipples, that lush mouth of his sucking one in through the thin fabric of her bra. His tongue is wet and his teeth are rough, and Rey’s teeth tingle with pleasure. 

But Rey fucks like she fights (or at least, that’s how she’s always seen it), so she doesn’t allow herself get lost again in the way he’s playing with her. Instead, her hand wanders down, past his hunched over waist (mountain of a man, needing to bend like he’s bowing to kiss her breasts), to the zipper of his jeans. He doesn’t react to her unzipping him, but he groans when her hand slips inside the opening so her fingers graze along the hardened rod of his cock, now covered only by his boxer-briefs.

He is absolutely proportional to the rest of himself; i.e., _freaking huge._

Rey should be terrified, but instead, she feels her insides clench with excitement. 

She begins stroking him over his briefs, the soft fabric letting her hands slide along his length. Ben retaliates by removing his mouth from her breasts long enough to tear her bralette over her head, exposing her completely to his gaze.

“Goddess, you are fucking divine, Rey,” he declares before returning his lips to her now bare skin, laving his tongue over her nipples as his hands grasp at her ass, pulling her closer. She tilts her head back, arching towards him as her breaths grow heavier. 

His hand gently ensnares her wrist, stilling her busy hand before pulling it away completely. Before she can protest, Ben’s fallen to his knees, eyes gleaming up wicked, predatory at her, his prey. 

She never imagined there could be so many layers to brown, but after looking into Ben Solo’s eyes, she knows. 

It doesn’t take him long to strip her of her jeans, panties going with them as he’s now a boy who cannot wait to unwrap his present any longer. He trembles, this time with anticipation as he takes the sight of her bare before him, her body serving as her offering to this scarred god of marble and sin. 

“Have you dreamed of me, little one?” He drawls while sliding a finger between her folds, testing her wetness, gathering it on his fingers. Her hips follow his finger, desperate for more as he teases. 

“Ben,” she gasps, hoping to the gods she didn’t sound like she was begging. 

“Tell me, little witch, did you dream about me too? Dream about me on my knees, licking your sweet little cunt till you screamed for me?” 

Rey never thought she was into dirty talk, but the deep bass of Ben’s voice has quickly changed her stance. And _oh,_ she thinks hazily, a bit of conscious thought cutting through her desire, _he dreamed of her too?_

Normally, Rey would never confess to some strange man (no matter how sexy) that she’s _dreamed_ of him, for fuck’s sake. For starters, that would just be desperate, if not creepy, even if he has dreamed of her and yet-

And yet, maybe it’s because she’s drunk on moonlight, maybe it’s the way her blood sings to his and the way the air, the earth, the fire below and the dewdrops forming outside all tell her _this is right, he is right,_ demanding they worship in their own, ancient dance, because she’s nodding to him, gasping, “Yes, Ben, Gods, yes.”

She’s rewarded with his tongue darting out to gather up her slick, tasting her for the very first time and holy crow, this man was made for this because just that one lick has her pleading, squirming-

“Spread your legs more, my little wood witch,” he chuckles, enjoying her desperation. Rey wordlessly obeys, a rarity for someone as fiercely independent as her. Then his mouth latches to her cunt, licking along her lips, running from her entrance to her clit and she’s helpless, both frozen and heaving as she takes his tribute.

She closes her eyes, the feeling of him making her insides sing and her stomach coil tighter in the deepest parts. 

He pulls away with a growl. “Look at me, Rey,” he commands. She’s putty, there’s no way she’ll deny him this, and so she does, cheeks heating with a blush as she forces her eyes to his. She can see moisture on his chin, wet from her and his raven hair helps him blend into the darkness, as if he’s a shadow sent to torture and tease. 

Then his tongue -wicked, sinful thing- presses against the hard button of skin hidden at the top of her folds and she’s grasping his hair, wrapping her fingers into it until she knows she won’t fall.

“Keep watching,” he hums as he circles her clit, stroking it as he experiments with pressure. It’s hell to stop herself from closing her eyes, wanting to lose herself in the pleasure, _because her whole body’s electricity, a smoldering tree sparking to life_ but she follows his orders. Instead, their gazes lock as she finds Ben watching her just as intently as he continues his ministrations. It’s more intimate than Rey could ever fathom, should ever allow, as it’s like she’s looking into the depths of his very soul and he into hers, but _fuck_ , is it hot.

She feels a finger prodding at the entrance to her cunt, walls already slick and allowing his digit to easily slide inside. Her head starts to roll back at this delicious new intrusion but she catches herself, bringing it back forward so she doesn’t lose eye contact with Ben.

With a chuckle, he adds another finger, and Rey can’t help but cry out at the sensation of two broad fingers inside her, thick and stretching, preparing as they press against her weeping cunt. Her knees are shaking and she’s praying she doesn’t fall, doesn’t collapse as each lick, each stroke brings her that much closer to the edge.

She remembers a poem she used to love, one that she always felt lost in the dark romance of, one that she finally understands. Keats, she remembers, and she almost mouths the words dizzily as she recalls them, trying to hang on to her pleasure as long as possible. 

__

_“The bee-mouth sips:_

__

_Ay, in the very temple of Delight_

       __

_Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,_

            __

_Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue_

       __

_Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;_

__

_His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,_

                __

_And be among her cloudy trophies hung.”_

Her body’s now the temple and Ben her avid worshipper, or maybe she’s worshipping him, built for his hands, lips, this reclusive, imperfect god of melancholy before her, kneeling to her, tasting her joy, her sadness, her light.

Her toes curl as he hums again, vibrations making her vision swim as his fingers curl inside her, pressing right on that secret spot inside. The one no one ever seems to be able to reach, not even Rey, and with one more pass of his tongue she’s falling, body bending forward as a scream rips through her lips, her orgasm white hot and strong and making the room around her sparkle with flakes of magickal energy. 

His free hand keeps her standing, supporting all of her weight, and before Rey’s able to fully come back to her senses, he’s laying her on his bed, ridiculously large like the rest of him. He sets her down with that same softness that he’d first kissed her with, back in the forest’s clearing. 

The moment her bare flesh hits the soft coolness of his sheets (likely thanks to a stupidly high thread count), her senses jolt back to life and her body comes alive. She springs up like a jack in a box, so she can grasp the waist of his jeans and pop the top button. 

“Here I was thinking I’d already worn you out, little witch,” he purrs, and the fire’s back in Rey’s belly, heating her blood anew. 

“You’ll have to try a lot harder than that,” she’s found her voice now, too, and his eyes flash at the challenge in his words.  
Pants off, she’s finally able to slide his boxer-briefs off and get a good look at him. His cock’s angry red, hot steel in her hand, a little dribble of fluid leaking out the tip.

She can’t resist but to lean forward, stealing a taste of his own temple of delight with her tongue. An unhinged moan escapes his mouth as she savors the salty brine of him.

Then he’s pushing her back onto the mattress so he can cover her own body with his, hot, damp skin sliding against the same, his body heat leeching into her and hard muscles rubbing against her almost painfully hard nipples. Their lips clash, another skirmish for control as he positions himself, thick head of him pressing into her. 

He slides home and she reaches heaven, the feeling of him filling her, every inch, every nook and cranny taken by his cock, her toes curling at the invasion.

“Ben!”

“Fuck, Rey, you’re - gods, you’re so tight,” he groans, a strangled noise and she can feel the tension in his voice as he takes a moment so he doesn’t lose all control, right then and there. His wood sprite renders payback by nipping his shoulder, where sinew and muscle make his skin tender and eliciting a moan from him before he begins to thrust into her. 

Ben Solo likes to start gentle, tender, she’s learned, and sex is no different, each buck of his hips almost loving at first. But scraped fingernails down his back and her pelvis tilting up to meet him shatters his restraint and he’s slamming into her soon, her whole body jolting with each plunge of his cock. He lifts her ass again, giving him more leverage and angling her so he hits her g-spot, again and again and again. 

It feels like magick, the way he fucks her. 

She’s crying out his name, over and over like a chant, a spell, a prayer on her lips as he impales her on him, chasing away her loneliness and emptiness, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her mouth as she arches and then screams into his kiss, coming apart around him and on his cock. 

It’s the feeling of her squeezing him, desperately trying to lock him in place as she writhes underneath him, that drags him over the edge with he. With a soft cry he jackhammers into her, arm locking her hips into place as if trying to get deeper, claim every inch of her with his come. 

When they collapse, they’re a pile of tangled limbs and panting breaths, still locked together as neither wants to let go. Eventually, Ben releases Rey long enough to pull out of her, too soft to comfortably remain inside, and she slips to the bathroom to clean herself up. 

After all, witches get UTIs, too. 

But she’s only gone long enough for him to miss her before she’s slipping back into his waiting arms and resting her head on his chest, which smells and feels like home on her cheek, cinnamon and smoke.

She asked for the forest to show her where she belonged, she thinks as she grins lazily, kissing Ben’s chest while he plays with her hair. 

As always, the forest delivered. 

_Literally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full chapter notes after the epilogue, which will be up within minutes of this. However... bam! I finally worked some Keats into a fic and made it work. Poetry nerd status unlocked.


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what sucks about small towns? You can't keep a secret for more than five seconds. AKA: The morning after. 
> 
> It's not what you're expecting.

Leia Organa Solo taps her fingers impatiently against her steering wheel as she navigates her SUV up the two-track dirt road to her son’s barn. It’s in rough enough shape to require her to switch over to four wheel drive and take the damn thing slow, and Leia Organa Solo loathes slow. Of course, she’d been after Ben to get it paved since he moved in, but of course, the stubborn child of hers refused. Likely because he thought it limited her visits.

_Definitely his father’s son_ , she thinks with a smirk.

She doesn’t normally pay her thirty year old son surprise morning visits for multiple reasons. First and foremost, she tries to keep her meddling limited, a sacrifice only a mother could understand. Second, she knows giving Ben space will only help him work through his trauma from that rat bastard Snoke, and ultimately, back to the protection of their coven.

And finally, but most importantly, Leia avoids such visits due to the simple fact that her son is most definitely  _not_  a morning person. 

However, dawn had brought the discovery of Rey Smith’s abandoned Subaru sitting next to a Lincoln forest trailhead. The finding caused a bit of a tizzy in town, with people banding together to search for the powerful, yet inexperienced young witch. Leia, hailed from her warm bed by Deputy Dameron’s frantic phone call, had gone to the scene (naturally, dragging Han along with her). She’d even taken it upon herself to walk the trail with her husband, trying to retrace Rey’s steps. They’d hadn’t even gone a quarter of a mile before they both froze mid-step, eyes drifting towards another, less used trail intersecting their path ahead.

“Do you feel that?” Han murmured, turning to his wife with that lopsided grin she loved so much.

“Ben,” was all Leia could whisper, almost overwhelmed at the feeling of her son’s presence imbued with the forest’s essence, a long lost shimmer in the forces around them.

Han agreed to stay behind and stave off any search parties while Leia headed straight to her father’s old barn, acting on a hunch.

She’d seen this in her tea leaves months ago, her son and Rey. She’d almost given up hope after her failed attempts to bring the two loners together, but now…

The tea never lies, and Leia never should have doubted in its prophecy. 

She parks her SUV back from the barn a bit, so her engine doesn’t alert anyone to her presence. She hops out from the high driver’s seat, a bit too petite to climb out but still somehow graceful in her movements. She stalks over to the barn, noting the two fresh pairs of shoeprints leading from the woods to the front door. One’s deep in the mud from a heavy step, Sasquatch-sized - Ben’s, she knows, familiar with his tracks. The other one’s smaller, lighter, a unique sneaker print with a footprint stamped into it - the same prints she saw at the trailhead. 

The ones Dameron thought were Rey’s.

Quiet as a church mouse, she makes her way to the barn and peeks in the large panel windows on the building’s first floor.

She’s looking in Ben’s main living area, and can see past his high-top dining table all the way to his leather couch and wood-fired stove. There’s no sign of her son, but an unfamiliar backpack sits on the floor with a California flag patch sewn to its back. Draped across a chair is a bright aqua Patagonia puffy, one definitely too small for her broad-shouldered son.

Her eyes follow what appear to be a trail of clothes to the stairs, and then she sees it: the cranberry colored Stanford t-shirt that only one person in Lincoln owned.

The old witch resists the urge to pump her fist in the air and proclaim victory, at least until she climbs back into her car. She’s seen enough to put two and two together, she doesn’t need to go catch her son _in flagrante delicto_ to confirm her suspicions.

“Han,” she orders as soon as he picks up the phone, “call the search teams off. You owe me fifty bucks and a bottle of Bordeaux.”

Her husband’s groan echoed through the SUV’s Bluetooth connection, the sound of a gambler knowing when he’s lost.

Leia can’t help but grin like a jack-o-lantern. 

“Wanna bet on their wedding date?” She can’t help but ask. 

“Goddess, Leia, you’re incorrigible.” Han sighed, and she laughs, a real laugh, one free of the worry that’s clouded her heart for too long.

She knows she doesn’t need to worry any longer. The tea leaves have spoken, telling her that this is the last step on her son’s path to healing, that she can finally feel relief.

“No, I’m right. And you know it!” She cackles to her husband, relishing in her victory. She stops to turn onto the main road, turn signal clicking in the background of their call. “Besides, a May wedding would be lovely.”

“I’m hanging up now,” she could hear Han rolling his eyes. After all, thirty two years of marriage teaches you the expressions that pair with the tones.

“I love you,” she says softly, knowing how it turns her husband to butter.

“I know,” he responds, his tone warming before he ends the call.

Leia can’t help but hum all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever think you're done with a fic just for Leia to pop up and insist she has the last word? *sighs*
> 
> Anyways - we're done! Sorry for not getting this up on Halloween as planned, however, we had a ton of trick-or-treaters and I had to pack for a work trip, which only furthered my delays. This damn thing's been sitting here, completely written and just waiting for an edit, for the whole damn time.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little excursion to Smutsville. I am a glutton for feedback and comments, so feel free to tell me what you thought of this. If you'd like more one-shots and short fics from me, please let me know, otherwise Safe Harbor will keep me hostage for the rest of my days.

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: I wrote this as a former Wiccan who has a lot of respect for the religion. I hope that was conveyed in this work, and I meant no offense with the delegations between Wiccans and "Natural Witches" (magick being my allegory for the Force here and whatnot). I'd like to thank everyone who helped me with this and encouraged me, especially the current practitioners that were happy to serve as sounding boards. If I fucked something up royally, please let me know as its been awhile since I practiced. 
> 
> Also, yes, Lincoln, VA is a real place. I think I went there a few times as a kid. Sadly, I did not see any witches. 
> 
> Chapter 2 is coming tomorrow, and it's the good stuff, so hang onto your butts. The trash panda is back and I'm driving the train to Smutsville. *cackles maniacally*
> 
> Additional translations from Scottish Gaelic:
> 
> “Seo na ciad cheumannan agad.” = "These are your first steps."
> 
> “Feuch, taisbean dhomh mo phàrantan,” = "Please, show me my family/parents"


End file.
